Wolf Bonded
by purpleann
Summary: Sandor Clegane is named the soul bonded mate for Lord Eddard Stark's eldest daughter. An AU featuring soul mates, arranged marriages, the Old Gods, greenseeing, the Starks and their people, and the major houses of Westeros. Lots of romance, a bit of drama and hopefully some comedy, too. Warnings: some canon character deaths; Sandor's potty mouth; spoilers through ADWD.
1. Sandor

A/N: This is a long WIP, friends. I have 14 chapters written and 23-ish planned, so stay tuned!

This story is AU after Jon Arryn's death. Lord Tywin has been named Hand of the King, and our story begins after he has returned to King's Landing to resume his post.

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Sandor could not believe how buggering cold it was. They were far enough north now, that it snowed almost every day, although it was still summer. The Neck was a week or so behind them, but it seemed that Winterfell was no closer. Sandor would have cursed his luck if he had ever had any.

He had been training in the yard with Jaime, when a page, red-faced and breathless, stumbled in and announced that Lord Tywin required his presence at once.

He couldn't remember the last time Lord Tywin spoke directly to him, as his orders almost always came from Queen Cersei. What could require an audience with his liege lord? Sandor remembered allowing himself a brief fantasy of hearing of his brother's grisly death, but Lord Tywin's news had turned out to be much stranger and even more unlikely.

Sandor could do nothing but stare in disbelief. Had it been any other man but Lord Tywin Lannister delivering such a message, he would have taken it for a terrible jape. But Lord Tywin did not ever smile, much less attempt to make others do so. The rolled parchment lay innocently on the table in front of his lord, with the Stark direwolf on the broken gray seal plainly visible.

Sandor was being called to Winterfell by Lord Eddard Stark.

"Some Northern sorcery has named you, Sandor Clegane, as the soul bonded mate for one of Lord Stark's daughters." Here Lord Tywin sneered at the parchment, "...the elder, Sansa is her name. Let me be the first to congratulate you on marrying far above your station."

Sandor could think of nothing to do but nod, and so that's what he did. But his thoughts were thrust into turmoil. _Marriage? To a highborn lady?_ Such notions were utterly foreign to him; so impossible as to be beyond even fantasy. Whores and serving girls flinched at the sight of his face; ladies of the court couldn't bear to look at him _at all_. He was no knight and only the second son of a very minor house. The idea that any woman would marry him was so foolish that Sandor had never even wished for it, in even his most fevered wine dreams. His only aspiration had ever been to one day be the one to end his brother's life. But at Lord Tywin's mocking congratulations, he couldn't help but feel a kind of lightness in his chest. Others would call it _hope_, but Sandor hated lying to himself, and hope was nothing but a lie.

"Ned Stark is a savage and a fool besides; he puts the future of his house in the hands of this so-called _greenseeing –_ nothing more than black magic perpetuated by the smallfolk in the North. Nevertheless, if he sees fit to waste his eldest daughter's hand on superstitious nonsense, it is no concern of mine. Sandor Clegane, you are going North. But you will remain a Westerman."

Sandor didn't move, but allowed his good eyebrow to raise just a bit. "My lord?"

"The Starks are sending an envoy here to collect you. You will return with them to Winterfell and take part in whatever barbaric ceremony is required of you to '_bond_' with the Stark girl. They will expect you to become a member of the Stark household, and of course you must give up your post as Joffrey's sworn shield. But you are no Northman, and the Cleganes are still sworn to Castlerly Rock. Do you understand me?"

Sandor understood perfectly. He was to be a Lannister man amongst the wolves of Winterfell. Why Lord Tywin would need to spy on the Starks was beyond him, but also didn't concern him. The Starks were nothing to him. Moreover this soul bonding sounded like just another lie...one perpetuated by tradition and religion, which in Sandor's experience were the worst kind.

"Aye, my lord, I understand." Sandor nodded with a slight bow, and stood again, waiting to be dismissed.

"I do not know when we will have need of you, but I expect the fervent loyalty you have shown our house will not be cooled by the snows of Winterfell, no matter how long you stay in the North."

"As you say my lord."

Lord Tywin nodded, and told Sandor to be ready to leave as soon as the Stark escort arrived. His parting words were to remind him that while he would be leaving King's Landing for good, he would _never_ leave the employ of the Lannisters. 


	2. Sansa

Sansa put aside her embroidery and smiled up at her brother and his companions. She tried to affect the stately look Mother had when receiving Stark bannermen in the Great Hall, although she could feel the strain in her cheeks that meant she was smiling too widely. It was so hard not to! This was just like in the songs when valiant knights swore their swords to their fair lady!

"My dear sister Sansa," Robb began formally, "may I offer congratulations on the news of your bonding, my lady. This is a great day in the life of a Stark maiden. To see you smiled upon thusly by the old Gods and by the Kings of Winter, our ancestors, brings me great joy."

Robb gave a flawless courtly bow, and Jon and Theon both copied him perfectly. Sansa nearly squealed at the thrill of it, but reigned in her reaction just in time.

She replied in the proper manner that would make Septa Mordane proud. "My lords, you do me great honor to share your good wishes with me."

Robb only smiled, but Jon continued somberly, grim faced as ever. "Not just our wishes, my lady. Know that if he is anything less than ideal, we will defend your honor to whatever end."

Sansa rose from her seat with as much of the gravity of a great lady she could muster at age fourteen. She knew this was a mere formality, but it still felt _important._ This was her first real duty as a woman grown and a lady of Winterfell.

Theon smirked, but Jon blushed a bit when Sansa stood on her toes to kiss all three of them in turn on the cheek. Robb nearly ruined it when he pinched her nose, but still, Sansa felt like a queen accepting fealty from her bravest knights. This was a great day! She was to learn the name of her bonded mate, her future lord husband!

Sansa thought that this day would never come. It seemed to be _years ago _now (although she knew it had only been a few months) that she awoke one morning with a dull pain in her belly and somewhat of a mess in her bed clothes. She had been looking forward to her flowering _forever_ – ever since she was told about the Stark soul bonding. She knew the ceremony to discover the name of her bonded mate couldn't happen until she had flowered.

Her lady mother had cautioned her not to expect too much too soon, but Sansa could hardly contain herself. The sooner Father called on the Reeds, the sooner she could meet her lord husband! Sansa had begged everyone she could think of to ask for details on the soul bonding; what it would be like, when she would meet her betrothed, whether he would be a great lord or a brave knight, or perhaps a handsome prince from an exotic land across the narrow sea?

But Mother knew nothing of the tradition, as southron maids found their husbands in much more ordinary ways – through the treaties and arrangements made by their lord fathers. Septa Mordane only sniffed in disapproval whenever the topic arose. Father only told her that she was too young to worry about such things and that there was plenty of time to learn about her future bond, but Sansa tried to tell him – she wasn't _worried_ about it at all! She wanted to _know_.

Old Nan knew about the traditions, though. She said the great houses of Westeros and the Citadel knew nothing of soul bonding because they knew nothing of the First Men.

"The blood of the First Men flows in you, my dear. It is from them that the bond for Stark women originates. The Kings of Winter knew of the bond, and knew its power as sure as they knew of the coming of winter. Be patient, sweetling. Your bond is for life, and will come as naturally to you as breathing."

Old Nan had known Aunt Lyanna and untold numbers of Stark maidens before her. Nobody was quite sure _how_ old Old Nan really was, but she was well versed in the long history of the Starks, even if she got confused about exactly which Stark family members she currently cared for. When Sansa tried to press her about Aunt Lyanna's bonding, she only started talking about what a sweet boy "her little Brandon" had been. But occasionally Sansa could get Old Nan to concentrate, and she would share a little of what she knew.

"You'll not be able to feel it right away my dear, you must have patience. But the Stark soul bond is strong, and grows more intense with time. And yes, with love! One day you will feel your bonded's presence day and night. You will feel him in your heart, in your mind. You'll know his fears and loves, his wants and needs as well as your own, as you'll be able to _feel_ it in your belly the way the rest of us feel hunger."

Sansa thought it sounded _wonderful_ and terribly romantic. Her father would not say anything about Aunt Lyanna, however. He only said that she had loved her bonded very much, and that he had loved her back, but then she died.

Today was the day Jojen Reed would perform the secret ceremony in the Godswood to discover the name of her soul bonded mate. Sansa would not be allowed to be present, however. Greenseeing was a private, mysterious, and secret process. Jojen would actually _speak_ to the heart tree somehow!

Father said Lord Howland had done the same for Aunt Lyanna. There had been no greenseers in the Stark family proper for many generations, but the Reeds had the Sight, and were happy to speak to Winterfell's heart tree on behalf of her daughters.

Sansa waited impatiently in her bed chamber, knowing that her mother would come to get her once the ceremony was over, and that she and Father would tell her all about her soon-to-be-betrothed. She _tried _to focus on her embroidery to pass the time, but concentrating was impossible, so she gave up hours ago.

Finally..._finally _the door opened and Lady Catelyn walked into the room, looking a bit pale, but smiling faintly.

"Come, Sansa. Your father awaits you in his solar."

Sansa jumped up from her chair by the window, smiling and giddy with excitement. This was a great day!


	3. Eddard

_Seven save us, a Lannister bannerman?_ Ned stared at the little crannogman, wishing he had misheard, but knowing that he had not. Howland Reed was a serious man, and Jojen Reed was his father's son. This was no jape, the Starks were about to be bound – in the gravest and most permanent way possible – to the Lannisters. Worse, to the Lannisters' vile pet. His sweet, innocent Sansa...with _the Hound! _If there was a man in the seven kingdoms worse suited for his gentle girl, he had yet to hear of him. Truthfully, the elder Clegane would be worse; but that was too...no, best to not even contemplate that.

"You are sure of it?"

Ned knew there was no point asking. Although he didn't completely understand the Sight, he knew that greenseers knew their craft and that mistakes were not made. Still, the outcome was so unimaginable, how could he _not _ask?

Jojen did not bother nodding. "My lord, I know it is not the name you hoped to hear. He is not the man you would have picked for your daughter. But her mate is not for you to choose. You are not a southron lord and Lady Sansa is no southron maid. This is the will of the Old Gods."

Eddard knew he was right, but couldn't help but think of the last time the will of the Old Gods was imposed on a Stark maiden. He looked into the curiously green eyes of Jojen Reed and saw only calm confidence. It unnerved him.

"The heart tree does not lie, my lord. I know you consider this man your enemy, but the political intrigues of Westeros are meaningless in this. The strength of the bond is as fierce as a direwolf, as sure as the coming of winter. The Sight tells me Sandor Clegane is your daughter's soul bonded mate. If you choose not to call him to Winterfell, the bond is like to grow in strength anyway, heedless of the distance between them. Mayhaps you would like less...what happened next. You know as well as I that resisting the soul bond is pointless, as well as dangerous."

Ned knew all too well what the Reed boy spoke of, and chose not to take offense at his imperious tone. He was right. Resistance would likely lead to disaster. His father had chosen not to pursue Lyanna's bond. Lord Rickard had neither sisters nor aunts, and the realities of the Stark soul bond were unknown to him. Now he and Lyanna were both dead, and Ned had a difficult conversation to have with his eldest daughter.

His heart broke at the idea of trying to explain to his sweet Sansa that she would not be marrying a gentle and handsome knight, like in the songs she loved so much.

Although Clegane was surely as ferocious a dog as his reputation implied, at least Ned was sure Sansa would be physically safe from him. The bond would make him loyal to Sansa at least, and fully vested in her safety. That at least Ned was sure of. Whether that loyalty extended to her family was an unknown, and whether a man sworn to the Lannisters and related to that monster Gregor could be trusted beyond that was perhaps an even larger question.

If she could be happy with him? Sansa, who spent her days dreaming and singing and embroidering flowers? Is there a man in Westeros gentle and kind enough for her? Ned shook his head in answer to himself, although he realized Jojen might think he was denying the truth of his words. Ned knew they were all too true. Winter was coming, perhaps sooner than anyone thought.

"Of course. I do know that. It is as you say, then. I will have Catelyn call her."


	4. Sansa II

Sansa rushed down the corridor, too upset to even realize where she was going. She could hear Septa Mordane calling after her, but only quickened her footsteps until the woman's voice faded away. She knew that Mother would not be pleased with her behavior once she heard about it, but for the moment Sansa couldn't care. Her face felt hot, and her hands ached, where she had tightened her fists so hard that her fingernails pressed into the soft flesh of her palms.

She felt her breath shortening as she continued through the maze of stone passageways, walking as fast as she could without running (only Arya would run _inside,_ like some crude wildling girl), but without any destination. Gradually her steps shortened, and her pace slowed. The hallways narrowed and the air felt suddenly much warmer, and Sansa realized she had wandered nearly all the way to the kitchens.

As she wondered whether Gage would let her steal a lemoncake, Sansa felt suddenly calmer. The peace washed over her as abruptly as vexation had a few minutes earlier. She was used to Arya being insufferable, but she could never remember feeling so _angry_ at her before today. Arya was just a little girl, after all, and had no interest in proper things like sewing and playing the high harp and doing the things a lady should do. Father said it was the wolf's blood in her. Whatever it was, normally Sansa could ignore her, but for some reason, today Arya's antics _enraged_ her.

She continued to wander the corridors, knowing if she went back to her chambers Mother and Septa Mordane would be waiting there to scold her. She kept walking instead, calming her breathing as she went, forcing herself to take the slow, measured steps of a lady. She trailed a hand on the wall as she went, feeling the hot springs Winterfell was built on warm the stone from within.

Eventually she found herself at her father's solar. It was here nearly two months ago that he and Mother had told her about her soul bonded mate. His name was Sandor Clegane, and Father said he was a fierce warrior from the Westerlands, in service to House Lannister. When Father said her bonded was only the second son of a minor house, Sansa immediately felt disappointed. She had assumed her soul mate would be a great lord, or even a prince!

Father seemed disappointed as well, and when Sansa asked why, he only said a Lannister bannerman was not who he would choose as a match for her. This Sandor Clegane was sworn shield to the crown prince, however, and Sansa felt sure that meant he must be brave and strong, to be trusted with such a charge. Being a Lannister bannerman couldn't be so terrible, either, after all the queen was of House Lannister!

Sansa felt her cheeks burn as she recalled her initial reaction. The thought of hoping to marry a lord or a prince had barely finished forming in her mind when she felt an unpleasant weight settle in her chest; it was the same feeling she had on the rare occasions Maester Luwin said he was _disappointed_ in her studies. It was _shame. _Sansa felt she had already somehow betrayed her bonded mate, and they weren't even married! They had yet to even meet!

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed childish to be disappointed that her soon-to-be-betrothed was not quite so highborn as she first imagined. He was far from a _commoner_, after all, and Old Nan had told her that the bond cared naught for birthrights and family trees. Anyway Jeyne Poole wasn't highborn at all, and she was Sansa's dearest friend.

_Sandor. _Sansa found herself saying his name over and over again in her head. She knew next to nothing about this man, but knew that she liked the sound of his name. She wondered what he was like. Mother had warned her not to expect him to be like the heroes in the songs she loved, and that although he wasn't exactly _lowborn_, Sandor was likely to be closer to a common soldier than a great lord. Sansa was surprised to feel a sharp stab of offense at her mother's words, but held her tongue. How else did knights become legends but through great deeds in battle? Sansa was sure that a valiant warrior would make a fine lord husband indeed.

The door to her father's solar stood slightly ajar, and when she peered inside, her father caught her eye and smiled.

"Come, Sansa. What troubles you, sweet one? I know you are hiding from your septa and your mother." Father's eyes were warm and smiling, and Sansa knew he would not scold her for being impatient with Arya.

Sansa entered the room and sat in a chair near the window. "It's Arya, Father. She...oh I don't even remember now. I was angry and spoke discourteously, and then I ran away. Septa Mordane was scolding me and I didn't even stop to listen!"

"You were angry? Normally you are more patient with Arya. Why was today different?"

The feelings that plagued her earlier were coming back to her in force. She felt the anger well up inside her again, even if she couldn't remember what Arya had even _said_ to her to set her off. She was afraid her father would be upset with her; even though he never raised his voice at any of them and although he didn't even _seem_ upset right now...Sansa's insides felt twisted and bit wobbly, like when Hullen picked a horse for her that was rather too spirited.

It was confusing and unpleasant, feeling so many things at once. Fear and anger swirled with her frustration and Sansa wanted it to stop. She twisted her hands in her lap and willed herself not to shout at her father.

"Oh Father I don't _know_ why today was different! I can't understand it and I don't think...I mean it doesn't...I don't _care_ that Arya hates embroidery! Her stitches are terrible! She doesn't even like pretty things so why should she spend all day embroidering?" Her heart was racing and she felt her cheeks warm up again. She was rambling about embroidery and it made no sense, and she didn't care. Her father's furrowed brow and concerned look were not at all comforting; for some reason that annoyed Sansa as well.

"Sansa...is this really about your sister? Are you...is it worry over your bonded mate? I know I told you that he..."

"Oh I don't care about that!" Sansa gasped and covered her mouth, staring at her father with wide eyes, horrified that she would interrupt him so rudely. He looked shocked, which only made her feel worse. To her utter dismay, she suddenly felt her eyes sting with unshed tears and prayed they wouldn't fall. It was so _childish_ to cry over nothing. She was nearly a woman grown and soon to be betrothed!

"I beg your pardon, Father, I spoke out of turn." Sansa whispered her apology and took a deep breath, blinking away the wetness from her eyes and placing her hands back in her lap as Septa Mordane taught her.

"I am not worried about meeting my bonded mate." As soon as the words left her mouth, Sansa heard the ring of untruth. She was worried, but it was somehow not a _bad_ feeling. She was looking forward to it, too. "I...well, I suppose I am a bit worried...but not terribly so, as I am _excited_ as well. I am anxious to meet him, and I feel as though...it's as if I...I mean that – that – I'm hopeful that he will..." Sansa felt her words and feelings getting twisted and confused again, and her throat began to close as she felt the strangest desire to burst into tears. Her hand flew to her mouth again, as if to keep her stuttering words inside.

Her father nodded seriously, and stood from his chair. He walked over to the window where she sat and crouched down in front of her, taking her hands in his own, and smiled gently up at her. The patient look in his gray eyes helped Sansa calm somewhat, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding.

"Sansa, I believe you are upset today because you are beginning to feel the effects of the bond. You know that as your bond strengthens, you'll begin to feel the emotions of your bonded mate as well as your own? He is on his way to Winterfell as we speak; as he gets closer, you may start to feel his feelings more intensely."

Sansa was stricken with this news. Did this mean her betrothed was angry with her? Angry at the idea of coming to Winterfell to be bonded with her and eventually marry her?

"But Father, why should he be angry?"

Her father squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Sandor Clegane is a Westerman, Sansa, the idea of soul bonding and the ways of the First Men are unknown to him. His whole life he has served the Lannisters at Casterly Rock and then at King's Landing. He is probably feeling...confused perhaps, at not knowing what awaits him here, and perhaps a bit angry at having to leave his homeland behind for the North. Winter is coming, and southron soldiers know naught of the Northern winter."

Sansa contemplated this. It had never occurred to her that Sandor would have to leave his life behind for her. He had to abandon family and friends and all that was familiar to him for a journey into the unknown North. Sansa tried to imagine how she would feel if she had to leave Father and Mother and Jeyne and Winterfell to go to some unknown place to wed a stranger. It would be exciting, but she would miss everyone terribly. And what if she knew nothing about the place that would be her new home? Sansa felt sure that would be unpleasant.

"I never thought about that, Father...I will say a prayer for him. And I promise to be more patient with Arya as well." He smiled at her and gave her leave to pray.

Sansa went first to the Godswood, and prayed to the heart tree to protect her bonded mate on his journey to Winterfell, and to help him come to love the North and find a home here, even if his family was so far away. Then she went to the Sept, figuring that as a Westerman he likely kept to the Seven. She lit a candle for the Warrior, remembering that Father said he had been a soldier his whole life, and knowing that as her future husband he would fight among her father's bannermen. She then lit a candle for the Mother, asking her to gentle his rage and help him know peace.

Sansa resolved to do everything she could to help Sandor feel welcome at Winterfell. She wondered that if she could feel his emotions, perhaps he could feel hers as well? As she knelt in the Sept, she tried hard to think pleasing, happy thoughts and hoped that her soon-to-be-betrothed could feel her love and concern for him, and that he would one day feel the same for her.


	5. Sandor II

A/N: This chapter includes a cameo from Tommy, Sandor's cheeky nephew and semi-competent squire. Tommy is the invention of **soulwriterchick** and appears here with her permission. Check out her story where Tommy is introduced, **Get to it, Dog!** here: s/7550175/1/Get-to-it-Dog

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Sandor sat down near the fire and sneered derisively at his companions as they set up camp. Were these buggers the best that Winterfell had to offer? If so, he'd have no one to spar with, and be as soft and useless as a septon in a moon's turn. Apparently Lord Stark had no real enemies, as his guardsmen couldn't be any less fearsome.

Lord Stark had sent the Captain of his Guard with a small company of men as an envoy to collect him from King's Landing, and then escort him into the frozen North. Sandor was not impressed. Few men managed to approach him in size or strength, but these men were more baby sitters than guards. Not even their so-called Captain – Jory something – would stand a chance against Jaime. Sandor never thought he'd end up missing the bloody fucking _Kingslayer._

He shook his head in disbelief. No decent challengers to spar with, likely no chance to kill his monstrous brother, and supposedly bound to marry some highborn lady and be her dutiful lord husband, according to some bloody Northern witchcraft. How had his life turned into a mummer's farce?

What did he know about having a wife? Just about as much as being a proper lord for a proper highborn lady: nothing. And now Sandor was three days away from meeting his betrothed. Not just some common girl either; the eldest daughter of a _lord._ The gods-damned Warden of the North and King Robert's dearest childhood friend. If the situation wasn't so bloody strange – and if it were happening to some other poor sod – Sandor would have laughed.

He felt truly unsettled, in a way he was utterly unfamiliar with, and it angered him. His already fierce need for some Dornish sour expanded ten-fold the more he thought on it. He was not used to going into situations totally blind. Even in battle, when no one could know what would happen, Sandor at least had the comfort of knowing the skills he'd spent a lifetime honing would serve him no matter what. In the thick of a good fight, he didn't even need to think at all; his body moved purely on instinct.

Did the girl have enemies that needed killing? Otherwise, Sandor couldn't see what good his instincts and training would do him in his new life. He knew nothing of being a husband, and even less of being a member of a noble household. The Starks were _mad_ for sending for him!

All he knew of lords and ladies was how to take orders from them, and to dispatch their enemies with either a sharp sword or a strong arm. How could Lord Stark want the likes of _him_ for his eldest daughter? What was this greenseeing and how in the seven hells did his name come up, in whatever _seeing_ took place?

Sandor brooded while he tended to his sword, and Tommy dealt with the tent. The Winterfell guardsmen moved about him, settling their camp, keeping their distance while trying to seem like they weren't trying to. They were all polite enough, if not exactly friendly, and the staring at his face had stopped by the third or fourth day on the road, which was more than Sandor had expected. But nobody dared get too close.

Sandor figured it was just as well. He wondered whether the people of Winterfell would be the same. In Kings Landing people highborn and low scurried away when they saw him coming, and it was the same at Castlerly Rock, even when he was barely more than a boy. Winterfell couldn't be much different. Sandor laughed bitterly to himself, thinking the Starks and their smallfolk were going to be mighty unhappy with their queer Northern gods for sending an ugly bastard like him to be bonded to their sweet lady.

Sandor's sneer deepened, thinking of the horrified looks he was like to receive from his soon-to-be-betrothed. He hoped for the girl's sake someone had warned her about his face. She was no doubt crying into her wine every night anyway, at the thought of marrying some lowborn dog like him. _She probably loves some northern knight. _Sandor scowled, thinking of a beautiful highborn lady, the kind that never looked him in the face, spending her days giggling with her ladies over some pretty boy like Ser Jaime or Lord Renly.

Would she merely hate him for not being her precious knight, or would she be _afraid_ of him as well? Sandor was used to both from most everyone, but a man should not have to see disgust and fear in the eyes of his own wife! The idea of his future wife swooning over some simpering milksop like the Knight of Flowers filled Sandor with a sudden, irrational rage and he was halfway to swearing to twist the bastard's neck when he realized he didn't even _know_ if his so-called soul bonded even had such a paramour.

He supposed someone in the Winterfell envoy would know. Guards tended to blend into the background and usually knew more than their liege lords realized. Their captain was the only one who would get near enough to him, so he supposed he could ask him.

"Jory, is it?"

The man paused in settling down on the far side of the fire, then moved to sit closer, but only nodded in reply.

"What do you know of this soul bonding? Why would Lord Stark send for me for his daughter without knowing anything about me?"

Jory gave him a shrewd look. "I think we all know a _little_ about you, Clegane. Lord Eddard is certainly aware of the Hound's reputation in battle, if naught else. But as for the bond...a few months ago Lord Jojen of Greywater Watch came to Winterfell. He has the Sight – all the Reeds do – and he says that you're to be bonded to Lady Sansa." Jory shrugged, as if that was all there was to it. The word of this Jojen.

"All I know about the bond is that every Stark maiden has one, and that one with the Sight is needed to find the name of her bonded mate. Turns out, you're the man who was named."

Sandor already knew as much from Lord Tywin, except about this Jojen. Perhaps Winterfell guards weren't the gossipmongers that Lannister guards were.

"If Lord Stark is so familiar with my reputation, why would he just accept the word of this Jojen? Surely the girl has other suitors or is in love with some knight. I doubt I'm the type of man a lord dreams to wed to his eldest daughter."

Jory snorted and gave Sandor a _look_. Even though Sandor knew the truth of it – he was clearly a poor match for a highborn maiden – seeing Jory so obviously and enthusiastically agree made Sandor want to punch him in the mouth. But he started talking again so Sandor refrained.

"Lord Eddard only told us that the Stark soul bond is powerful and not to be disputed nor disregarded." Here, he shrugged again. "And I assure you, ser, Lady Sansa has no suitors nor lovers. She is only four and ten!"

_Bloody buggering hell._ _Betrothed to a little girl. What the fuck is Stark thinking!_ Sandor just stared at Jory in disbelief, too surprised to correct his use of "ser."

But Jory was still talking, oblivious to Sandor's shock. He spoke of Sansa's sweet nature, and how she always had a kind word for everyone, how she was the perfect little lady, and the very image of her lady mother, Catelyn Stark of the Tullys of Riverrun.

The other members of their party had settled in around the fire by now, and joined in eagerly, laughing and joking about how lovely and charming the Stark women were, even the wild and unruly younger daughter, who one of them called "Arya Underfoot." Sandor let their chattering fade into the background, as he tried to make sense of the churning mess in his head and in his gut.

He felt like he had downed a half dozen skins of sickeningly sweet Arbor Gold. He was going to be a husband. To a little girl. A sweet, lovely, highborn girl. He was not just going to marry her, but be magically _bound_ to her, whatever the fuck _that_ meant, according to the so-called _Sight_ of some Northern lord. It didn't make any sense, but it was also inevitable. They were only three days away!

Nobody seemed to have a problem with it. Jory's snide looks aside, Lord Stark had sent for him, with full knowledge of him as the Hound. He couldn't understand the unshakable faith in this Sight, and why no one thought it was a bad idea for their precious Lady Sansa to be bonded to a vicious dog like him.

"My lord, your tent is ready." Tommy's voice broke him out of his musings, but the unpleasant roiling in his belly continued. Sandor grunted in reply and Tommy scurried off. The Winterfell guards were still prattling on like a bunch of women, and Sandor wished at least one of them was up for bit of sparring; he needed to distract himself from thinking about the bond, and how he was going to face Lady Sansa's disgust and disappointment in just three days. But he might as well swing his sword at one of the nearby trees...now they were talking about Lady Catelyn's _hair_ for fuck's sake.

"Sansa will surely be as beautiful as her mother; she's already nearly there, though she is still so young. Clegane, you don't even know your luck, ser!" One of the guardsmen nodded in his direction with an impish smile, and Sandor wondered if the bloody sod was drunk, or just stupid. What in seven hells made him think it was okay to talk about her like that? Did he not fear his liege lord? Lord Tywin would have any man's tongue for speaking about Cersei like that.

Sandor just glared at him, but the idiot didn't notice, and went on and on about Sansa's hair, and her pretty singing voice, and how even her pet direwolf was the sweetest of the pack, and how _womanly_ her figure had become of late.

Sandor was on his feet and clenching his fists before the conscious thought to do so had even finished forming in his brain. He could feel his face twisting in rage, and hoped the bastards were appropriately frightened of his scarred and bitter scowl. Through the haze of his anger, he heard that the chattering around the fire had given way to deadly silence. He wanted desperately to bury his fist into the smirking face of that insolent bastard, and knew none of the other guards could stop him. But he didn't want to arrive at Winterfell with a dead Stark guardsman; he would have enough trouble earning a welcome as it was. But he'd certainly teach the stupid sod a lesson.

"What the bloody _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Sandor wanted to roar at the man, but in trying to control himself, his voice came out as a low, furious growl. "You speak of your lord's daughter, a maid of four and ten, as if she's some bloody fucking _tavern wench_? Is that what all you Northern _knights_ are like? Disrespectful and lecherous _bastards_?"

The man sat wide-eyed and slack-jawed, and held both hands up in a show of surrender.

"I-I-I meant nothing of it, ser, I only meant the Lady Sansa, she..."

"_Don't_ fucking call me _ser_, and _don't_ say a word about the Lady Sansa. Not one _fucking_ word...not ever again. Do you hear me?" Sandor glared at the man until he nodded mutely, and then spun around to go into his tent. He needed to be away from the guardsmen before he ripped one of them to shreds.

Tommy was already snoring softly on his bedroll, and Sandor was glad for it. The boy was far too cheeky and would be asking impertinent questions if he overheard that exchange. In truth, Sandor wouldn't have known what to say. He had no idea why the man's words had angered him so. Certainly much cruder language was commonplace amongst guardsmen, and it seemed these men had genuine affection for Sansa and her sister, nothing inappropriate at all, really. As he began to undress, he felt the anger drain out of him as abruptly as it had flooded him a moment ago. He was still shocked at the familiar way the guardsmen spoke about the Stark women, but he no longer felt the need to _kill_ one of them over it.

He _really_ wanted some wine, but wasn't about to go back out there and find some. He settled down on his bedroll, cursing the snowy ground, but feeling suddenly exhausted despite the cold and the rush of the adrenaline from a moment ago. He fell asleep almost immediately, dreaming of a pretty, red-haired girl smiling at him.


	6. Sansa III

Jeyne and Septa Mordane were talking, but Sansa couldn't hear them, although they were in the same room with her. Their voices were a faint buzzing, as if they were at the far end of a long, echoing hallway.

Sansa was in her chambers, and had just finished dressing in her nicest gray woolen dress. The neckline was very modest, but still more bare than what she had been allowed before her flowering. She had finished the dress herself, embroidering a narrow band of tiny flowers, vines, and leaves around the neckline and about both wrists, all in pure snowy white.

Her Septa and her mother both were impressed with the stitching, but Arya only scoffed. With all her twelve-year-old wisdom, she announced it was stupid to try and impress a man with embroidery. Jeyne also disapproved, saying she should wear something more colorful, but Sansa felt sure she should wear Stark colors today.

She was about to join her family out in the courtyard, to await Sandor's arrival. She was _finally _going to meet him today! Gariss had arrived early that morning, having ridden ahead of the envoy to announce they were only a half day away, and would arrive soon after high noon. Sansa had been a bundle of nerves ever since. Gariss himself seemed nervous too, and wouldn't look directly at her, and it somehow made her even more anxious. She had such an urge to ask him what he thought of Sandor, what he was like, if he had asked about her or _said_ anything about her, but knew it would be improper to do so.

For the last three days, it seemed to Sansa as if she could _feel_ Sandor more and more with each moment, and the intensity made her dizzy. His feelings were so..._raw._ He was angry most of the time, and Sansa had to work hard to blink away tears every time she felt a stab of his fury. She knew now not to take it out on those around her (although Arya sometimes made it very hard to practice restraint), but mostly it saddened her that her betrothed was clearly so opposed to their match. She was convinced she could change his mind, and vowed to be the perfect lady wife to him. She wanted him to love Winterfell, and hopefully love her one day, too.

Old Nan had said soul bonded mates enjoyed a powerful and loving connection, but now Sansa wasn't so sure. The connection was surely there, but Sansa didn't feel love through it at all. Sandor's feelings were so intense and her reactions to them so strong, sometimes she had trouble untangling her own emotions from the echo of his, but she knew one thing: he was angry, and he was anxious. Or perhaps he was angry about feeling anxious. More likely, he was feeling _her_ nervousness, and found the sensation irritable. Why should such a fierce warrior ever feel nervous? Thinking of how Sandor must hate being forced to feel the emotions of a silly girl made Sansa feel _more_ upset and just brought the whole cycle 'round and 'round again.

The buzzing that was her companions' voices stopped suddenly, and Sansa looked up to see her father had come to collect her. He smiled at her, and Sansa was happy to see reassurance in his gray eyes. Father had voiced his doubts about Sandor being a Lannister man, but he never doubted the bond itself. He said that if Jojen's Sight revealed Sandor Clegane was her bonded mate, then Sandor would love her more than anything, and she would one day feel the same for him. Sansa desperately wanted to believe him, but her father couldn't feel Sandor's simmering wrath. What would he say if he could? What did Aunt Lyanna feel from her bonded mate when they first met? Sansa would never know, because her father never spoke of his sister.

Sansa took her father's arm, and they slowly walked the path that would take them to meet the others in the courtyard outside the Great Keep. Father tried to distract her with a funny tale about Rickon and Shaggydog, but Sansa barely heard him. The heavy pounding of her heart echoed in her ears, and she _felt_ him...Sandor was so close now, only a few minutes away.

Once outside, Sansa took her place between her father and her brother Robb. Her mother and her siblings were there too, along with Jon and Theon. Sansa had begged her mother to let Lady stand with her, and when she followed Sansa into the yard, the other direwolves wouldn't be sent away. They each sat at the feet of their masters, and Sansa fancied that she could borrow some of their calm, fierce confidence.

Sansa knew it was him long before they were close enough to see faces. Even if he hadn't been bigger than everyone else in the column, Sansa would have known it was _him_, her bonded mate. When her eyes rested upon him, even from so far away, she felt a jolt in her belly. It was a jab of icy cold pain, like getting hit with a ball of snow when she played with Arya and Bran and Rickon the day after a storm. But then it felt warm. A blaze of heat that curled inside her, right at the spot that had been cold a moment before, and spread over her chest and neck, and lower too. She felt a flush in her cheeks and a flutter down her spine. Her mouth felt dry and her heart pounded at a furious pace in her chest, and she suddenly felt short of breath. She bounced on her toes, forgetting for a moment her Septa's reminders that ladies did not fidget.

He was so _tall._ Sitting astride an enormous black stallion, Sandor was head and shoulders above every other man around him. And such broad shoulders they were! Sansa understood she was seeing a true warrior for the first time. Even his horse looked fierce! As he got closer, she saw that he had straight black hair that reached his massive shoulders, and that it partially concealed his face. Sansa couldn't look away from him. She wanted to turn only to reprimand Arya when she heard her exclaim "what's wrong with his _face_!?" but then she actually _saw_ his face...

...and Sansa's heart broke. One side was a ruin of wicked-looking burn scars. One ear, one side of his mouth, and one cheek were an angry, twisted mass of flesh that his dark hair couldn't really hide. Sansa's already tumultuous emotions were then spiked with fear for her betrothed – what horrors had he endured that could leave such damage? Protecting Lannisters must be dangerous work indeed if _this_ is what happened to their sworn shields. Sansa felt suddenly angry at this unknown Lord Lannister. She felt sure her father would never ask a man to withstand such torture, neither in his name, nor for Winterfell.

He was now only a few yards away, and was dismounting surprisingly gracefully from his huge black warhorse. As he walked towards her, she could finally see his eyes. They were dark gray, and piercing. Sansa felt like he could see right through her, and again she felt that hot-cold thrill sweep through her body, making her tremble. She couldn't look away, and she didn't _want_ to look away.

They were gray like Father's eyes and Arya's eyes, but so _dark. _Like a stormy sky, or like the pool in the center of the Godswood. He stared at her, and Sansa wished she could concentrate enough to know his feelings. Was he still angry? Did he regret coming North to meet her? Sansa knew that staring was terribly rude, but she couldn't look away from him, even from his terrible scars. A man with such scars must be utterly fearless. Sansa marveled that he really _was_ like a hero from the songs, despite what her mother had said. Whatever had inflicted those scars, Sandor had survived, and magnificently so. Sansa had never seen a taller or a bigger man, nor one with such a threatening presence. Looking at him made her feel strong and weak at the same time, like she could somehow share his fearlessness, but would never _need_ to be brave with him by her side.

Did he take offense at her complete silence? It wasn't fear that held her tongue. She wanted to greet him properly, wanted to impress him, wanted to make him love her, but couldn't think of the correct words, nor how to make her mouth move to say them. Merely thinking clearly was impossible. She heard the buzzing again around her, and wondered vaguely if people were speaking to her.

Sansa knew she was in love with Sandor the first day she prayed for him, but now she felt something far beyond whatever it was that settled in her chest that day in the Godswood. It was a desperate _want _that she didn't really understand. It hurt a little bit, but at the same time, she wished it was a tangible thing she could grab on to with both hands and _never let go_.

She wanted to tell Sandor this, to ask him if he felt it too; she wanted to say hello to him and tell him she prayed for him. She wanted to know what his voice sounded like and if it was dark and stormy like his eyes. She wanted to know what happened to his face and if his hair was as soft as it looked...she wanted to _know what he was thinking._

With him so close now, she had to let her head drop back a bit so she could keep looking at him – he really was very tall – and _broad_. Sansa wondered if he could hear her heart beating, as it was the only sound _she_ could hear. She was more determined than ever to make him love her, and was thankful for the bond that would help her know his feelings, once she could sort them from her own.

She opened her mouth to finally say something, when Lady suddenly let out a little howl. She was usually much quieter than her brothers and sister, and the sound surprised Sansa out of her fog. She had been laying at Sansa's feet, but now stood at her full height. Lady walked right up to Sandor, and for the first time since he rode through the gates, Sansa tore her eyes away from him, and they both looked down at the direwolf. Lady nudged at the folds of Sandor's clothes, sniffing him, and then licked his hand. Sansa smiled and looked up at Sandor to see his reaction. Not everyone took to the attentions of a direwolf, and Lady was already much bigger than most dogs, even though she was still only a pup. But Sandor's mouth quirked into a little half-grin as he rubbed Lady's head, and the sight gave Sansa such a thrill, she forgot what she had planned to say.


	7. Sandor III

The massive gray granite walls of Winterfell were in sight, and Sandor's guts were in turmoil. He'd never felt like such a bloody jittery _mess; _not even before his first battle as a green lad. His senses were a tangled wreck and his mind was a fog, as if he had been drinking heavily for days. 

It was a _ridiculous_ notion – being nervous to meet some little girl and her family. It was _their_ folly that called him here, it would be no concern of Sandor's if they didn't like what they saw once he arrived. Fretting like a woman was shredding his nerves and testing his patience.

He tried to clear his mind, but it was futile. He was increasingly irritated that _apparently_ he no longer had mastery over his own thoughts. The frustration and damnable anxiety twisted together and clouded Sandor's head completely. The guards' happy chatter about returning home and Tommy's endless line of questions about the North did nothing to penetrate it. Their voices were an annoying buzz around him, and easily ignored.

Sandor realized, not for the first time on this journey, that his life was about to get incredibly complicated. Before that bloody raven from Lord Stark, his days had been simple and reassuringly predictable. Watch after the golden boy prince. Do whatever Queen Cersei commanded while on duty, drink as much wine as possible off duty. Train whenever possible, and sometimes pay a wench for her attentions, if both coin and desperation were sufficient.

None of that was to be the same, and Sandor was in no way equipped to deal with the change. He had no idea how to relate to a high lord as anything but a sword...would Lord Stark want him to act as...what? A _son_? One of his bannermen? What the bloody fuck did men married to highborn ladies _do_ with their days anyway? Sandor would be damned to all seven hells before he gave up training and being useful for sitting in bloody _council_ meetings. He snorted to himself at the thought. Unless those meetings were about how to kill people, he wouldn't have much to add anyway.

And what of the girl? Whenever Sandor thought of her, he felt a shiver down his spine and an unfamiliar and unpleasant swirl of emotions. It was want, anticipation, and dread mixed together in a grim combination. He couldn't lie to himself any longer; the idea of having a pretty lady wife was a secret desire he didn't even realize he had, until that fucking raven planted the idea in his head. The more he thought on it, the more it was something he yearned for, and the more he hated himself for the wretched yearning.

Sandor couldn't even really imagine what having a wife would be like, but it had to be better than what he was used to from women...fear...disgust...the false smiles of whores...and in one memorable case, pity from an old innkeeper's wife. Jory said Lady Sansa was sweet and kind, so perhaps she would be too polite to be obvious about her revulsion. Sandor thought perhaps that wouldn't be so bad. Simple courtesy from a beautiful girl was more than he deserved, after all, or had ever hoped to get.

The dread was still there, however...it was a living thing that thrashed and writhed inside him, making him sick with doubt and increasingly uneasy as the walls of Winterfell loomed larger. The feeling that she _would_ be horrified, that she would flinch away from him, the way the Queen's ladies in King's Landing did when he followed Joffrey into a room. For some reason, Sandor _dreaded_ that flinch from this girl he didn't even know. He was disgusted with himself when he realized how desperately he wanted _approval_ from her. A maid of only four and ten who he'd never even laid eyes on! How could she matter so much to him already? It was foolish and pathetic but couldn't be denied. Neighbor to the dread in his heart, was an empty ache. It was _want_. He _wanted_ her to...just not hate him.

They had reached the outer walls of the castle complex, and the drawbridge was already down. As Sandor fell in line behind Jory, and with the rest of his escort behind him, he could feel the curious eyes of the other Winterfell guards on him. He had been stared at his entire life, and should be well used to it by now, but these stares only added to his distress. He knew his soon-to-be-betrothed was just inside the inner gate, that he was only moments away from seeing her, from _her seeing him_. The anticipation and doubt churned together in his belly and threatened to make him sick. He tried to steel himself against what he knew was like to happen, but a stubborn hope that seemed to be in the back of his mind for three days now wouldn't let him.

He dreaded the meeting but at the same time wanted nothing more than to finally see her, to meet her, the source of all his frustration and confusion since he left King's Landing. What would she say? What did she think of this so-called bond? Would she cry when she saw his ugly face? Although he was used to all manner of rude greetings, Sandor didn't think he could bear a look of disgust on her face. He didn't even know what her face looked like, but it seemed seeing the smallest of smiles on that face – directed at him – was now his chief ambition. 

The column emerged from the inner gate into the wide open courtyard of Winterfell. He saw the Stark family lined up outside the main gates of the Great Keep, and he knew immediately which one was his future bride. 

Even if she wasn't obviously the eldest daughter in a family of mostly boys, he would know it was _her_. When his eyes settled on her bright head, he felt a stab in his gut that nearly took his breath away. It was much worse than his first battle wound. It was cold and sudden and sharp, and at that moment Sandor knew Sansa Stark would be the most dangerous person he'd ever meet. 

After the cold, came the heat. It started at the same spot in his belly and swept over his whole body, like being submerged in a piping hot bath after a long day of training and fighting. It felt undeniably good, although underneath was the faint echo of pain, like the sting of water on a fresh scrape or bruise. If just looking at her made him feel this way, Sandor was suddenly afraid to speak to her. Just a word from this woman – a girl, really – could ruin him. He was already enthralled, and they hadn't even spoken. 

As he got closer, he saw she was tall for a girl – and that the idiot guardsman he'd nearly killed had the right of it – she didn't look like a little girl _at all_. It was bloody fucking cold up here in the North, and she wore a fur cloak, but it was only draped over her shoulders, and was open to reveal her lovely figure swathed in the grim Stark colors. Her plain and dull-colored dress was so different from the fripperies of the ladies at court, but it wouldn't be fair to put a girl that looked like her in anything else. 

If he had not already been speechless and unable to tear his eyes away from her, he would be now. She was _beautiful_. No amount of praise from the guardsmen could have prepared him for this face. Bards at court sang of legendary beauties, but no woman real or imaginary could compare to the creature before him now. 

Her fiery red hair caught the sunlight and made everything around her fade into nothing. Now that he had dismounted and was walking towards her, he could see her eyes. Her eyes blazed as brightly as her hair, but they were a deep blue that Sandor was already drowning in. The southern summer sky, the waves on the beach at Lannisport, the jewels in the Queen's crown, all of them paled in comparison to the blue of her eyes. 

She was staring at him with those eyes, and it unnerved him and thrilled him at the same time. No woman had ever looked him in the face before, yet there was no disgust there. How could this be? What could she be thinking? Were all Northern girls this bold and fearless? 

Her skin was flawless...it looked smooth and creamy and softer than anything Sandor had ever touched. She had a perfect, pink mouth with full lips that were ever so slightly parted, and Sandor couldn't look away. He didn't think he'd want to look at anything else, ever again. 

Neither of them spoke. _She must think me a fool._ But Sandor had no idea what he _should_ say. Was there a proper sort of greeting? He wasn't sure he could speak, even if he knew the correct words to say. His mind was still a fog, and he wondered if the buzzing he heard was inside his head, or if someone was saying something to him. 

Was she shocked into silence? Did he frighten her with his horrible face? Was she intimidated by his size, had she heard terrible stories about The Hound? But she didn't turn away...nor did she _look_ away. The neckline of her dress dipped modestly to reveal the curving arch of her lovely neck, the faint blush there making her, if possible, even more beautiful. 

Her pulse beat frantically there, against her perfect skin, like the wings of the caged little birds from from the Summer Isles that were popular at court. He wanted to feel that fluttering pulse against his fingers, against his lips. But why would such a beautiful creature ever let _him_ touch her? Why hadn't she looked away in loathing, or run away crying from the idea of _him_ as her bonded mate? Surely she had gotten a good look at him by now. 

Suddenly her massive pet stirred, and let out a little howl. Sandor had never seen a direwolf before, and it was the only thing that could tear his eyes away from the girl. It was just as beautiful as its mistress, with thick, pale gray fur and wide golden eyes. The direwolf sniffed at him and licked his hand, and Sandor couldn't help but smile and rub the animal's soft head. Sandor looked up at his soon-to-be-betrothed and his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. She looked right back at him with those huge blue eyes and _smiled_, and Sandor knew he was lost. He cursed his brother tenfold all over again for ruining his face, if _this_ is what it felt like to have a pretty girl look at him without fear, and _smile_. 


	8. Catelyn

Servants were bringing out the final course, a series of beautiful desserts, each more tempting than the last. There were fruit tarts in deep round dishes, surrounded by warm flaky crusts and full of dark berries that Catelyn knew would be equal parts tart and sweet. Pears poached in strongwine were followed by sliced winter peaches served with chilled honeyed milk. The iced blueberries with sweet cream were set in front of Arya; the cooks were well used to chasing her out of the kitchen for trying to sneak bowls of it. Catelyn herself looked forward to the baked apples fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, and planned to have mulled wine as well. Sansa, of course, only had eyes for the lemon cakes frosted with sugar, which she was nibbling on daintily, in between laughing at Tommy's antics.

It was Sansa's fifteenth name day, and the feast that night was just a bit more lavish than usual in celebration. Gage and the rest were all too happy to make all of Sansa's favorites, and even fashioned the lemon cakes in the shape of roses especially for her. Catelyn had offered to have a new dress made for her, but Sansa had begged instead for silk and wool and fine thread in yellow and black, eager to make favors for her betrothed in his house colors, although the man was no knight. She had also asked for white and gray velvet in order to make her own maiden's cloak. Her father, of course, allowed the purchases, although he made sure to be clear that Sansa would have no _need_ for a maiden's cloak for many years yet.

The children were laughing and clapping while Sandor's bastard nephew juggled lemons and winter peaches to amuse Sansa, and Catelyn had to admit the boy was quite good. She found it curious that although he seemed better at being a court jester than a squire, his uncle didn't seem to mind. Sandor spoke gruffly to Tommy and seemed to always chide him for sleeping late and asking too many questions, but was in truth strangely tolerant of the boy's shoddy squiring. But then, everything about Sandor Clegane was strange.

Catelyn looked over at the scarred man, and saw that he was smiling fondly at Sansa's obvious enjoyment, and only grinned more broadly when Arya started shouting that she wanted to learn how to juggle, too. His smile did nothing to make him more handsome; in fact, it twisted the scarred half of his face in a most alarming manner, but Catelyn could not be moved to fear him, not anymore.

Despite the initial shock – and yes, _despair_ – upon hearing his name from Jojen Reed's lips, Catelyn had to admit that Sandor Clegane mayhaps was going to be a good match for Sansa. What mother didn't wish for a strong and gentle husband for her daughter? Surely there was no stronger nor fiercer warrior in all the Seven Kingdoms. Catelyn had seen Sandor in the yard practicing with each of Winterfell's best guardsmen, and when he sparred with Robb and Theon and Jon, he took the boys on two at a time, and sometimes all at once. One didn't need to know anything about swordfighting to recognize deadly skill when one saw it. Sandor was bigger and stronger than the others, but also incredibly fast and strangely graceful. Even if she had never witnessed his skill in the yard, his reputation as The Hound spoke for itself.

No-one with knowledge of his reputation would think the man capable of gentleness, yet Catelyn had seen it with her own eyes. He was brutish and rude and alarmingly large, as well as muscled like a bull. He stalked about the corridors and in the courtyards with a scowl and a dangerous air, making even the boldest servants grant him only the barest greetings before scurrying away. Yet he treated Sansa with a tenderness and caution that bordered on reverence...it was remarkable. Catelyn was sure that he really only spoke to her and to Ned with courtesy for Sansa's sake. All his gentleness and politeness was reserved for Sansa alone.

Catelyn thought back to their extraordinary and somewhat awkward first meeting. _Extraordinary_ because she had never witnessed anything like it. Her sweet and lovely daughter, and this scarred brute of a man, merely stared at each other with an uncanny intensity. The moment stretched on and on, but they never exchanged a word. Their eyes were locked together and it seemed nothing could break their gaze, as if the soul bond connection Old Nan spoke of was a tangible thing linking them together. Sansa's Tully blue eyes met the fathomless gray eyes of the Hound, and there was an identical gleam in both gazes, an indefinable _spark_ shared between them that was nearly palpable. Catelyn knew then she was witnessing something quite unique. If she had ever doubted the truth of the bond before that moment, seeing them stare at each other unblinkingly would have settled the matter.

Although her husband did not share the reasons behind his unshakable confidence in the strength and power of the bond, Catelyn trusted his faith and took it on as her own. She desperately wanted to know how Lyanna Stark dealt with her bond and what became of it, but knew better than to ask. Ned never spoke of his sister, and asking would only force him to deny her, which Catelyn knew he was loath to do.

Sansa and Sandor's first meeting was just as awkward for everyone else present. Sansa had confessed later that being near him for the first time had been so overwhelming she could barely _think_ straight, much less form any words. It seemed their emotional overload also meant the pair would not – or perhaps _could not_ – acknowledge anyone or anything else around them. Ned had made the formal introductions, and his words had fallen on deaf ears. When he implored Sansa – usually so courteous and eager to say and do the right thing – to _say_ something, anything, he was met with total silence. She didn't even _acknowledge_ her father! He had spoken directly to Sandor as well, and Catelyn supposed he would have been insulted had he not seen Sansa behave exactly the same the moment before: deaf and blind to all, as if she and Sandor were the only two people in the world.

Only the attention of Sansa's direwolf broke the gaze that tethered them together, and Catelyn had to concede that could only be a good omen. When Ned and the others had first brought the direwolf pups home, Catelyn had felt uneasy upon learning of the manner of their birth and discovery. She knew Ned put no stock in omens and the like, so she had held her tongue. But over the past few months, her opinion of the animals had changed. The direwolves grew fiercer and more defensive of their masters every day. For the most part, they each kept only to whom they belonged – even the other children were barely acknowledged. Only when the direwolves felt their charge was in danger would they react to others, usually in the form of a low growl or a spine-tingling snarl. The fact that Lady did not see Sandor as a threat to Sansa must be a good sign, not to mention the obvious affection she showed him in the courtyard that first day, and indeed ever since then.

Catelyn marveled, not for the first time, how strange life in the North was, compared to life in the Riverlands. She doubted the children of other great Houses had such useful pets, but was thankful to the Old Gods and the new that her children had such an advantage. As Ned was fond of reminding her, winter was coming.

"A better fool than a squire, isn't he?"

Catelyn turned to her husband at the sound of his voice, and saw that he was also smiling at Tommy's entertainment. She smiled too, thinking it funny she had nearly the same thought only a moment ago.

"I thought the same, my lord. But Sandor doesn't seem to mind, does he?"

Ned looked thoughtful, and sipped on his wine. "He doesn't. He treats the boy fairly. Nay, in truth he is lenient with him. I suspect he may even have a fondness for him."

Ned's tone was light, but Catelyn knew what he hinted at. He was impressed that Sandor treated Tommy so well, given he was Tommy _Hill_, a bastard born to his brother Gregor and some unfortunate Westerwoman. But Catelyn had no prejudice against bastard children, and the poor boy was only twelve. She knew no good would have come to him living among Lannisters or near his terrifying father. It was only _her husband's_ bastard she had no love for. It was another topic not worth broaching with Ned.

"I suspect you are correct, my lord, and Tommy is a good boy after all. But who would have thought the Hound could be so patient and tolerant?"

Ned put down his wine goblet, and his eyes strayed over to where Sandor and Sansa sat together, speaking quietly. Sansa's cheeks were flushed and she was smiling up at Sandor with stars in her eyes, as if he was a hero from her favorite song and the handsomest man alive.

He smiled wistfully. "My lady, you speak truly. Much about Sandor Clegane surprises me. But the same is true for our Sansa. Gods, Catelyn, five and ten! When did she grow up? How is it I am seeing my daughter sit and talk with a man who will be her husband?"

"She _has_ grown my lord, better than I even hoped. I am proud of her. Never would I have thought she would look on a man like Sandor Clegane as if he was Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. I had oft feared Sansa lived too much in her songs, and would never learn to heed her grandfather's words."

Ned laughed. "Yes, Sansa shall have no trouble keeping to the Tully motto, not if it means marrying her hero." Ned smiled the indulgent smile he reserved only for Sansa and Arya. "I doubt she thinks on it as a burden, my lady. It seems our Sansa has made her own song."

It was true. No matter what she and Ned thought of the match, it was clear to Catelyn that Sansa couldn't be happier.

Ned was still smiling as he watched Sansa and Sandor, but Catelyn could see the gray in his eyes darken. He reached out for her hand and squeezed it, and the act made Catelyn's heart race, for she knew what dark thoughts had suddenly clouded her husband's eyes.

"My lady, it pleases me to have this moment with you and our children. I fear the errand we spoke of may take me away from Winterfell and all I love, at least for a while."

He brought her hand to his mouth, and dropped a soft kiss on her fingertips. Fear curled in Catelyn's belly, cold and sharp, and she couldn't help but shiver, although the fires in the Great Hall blazed high and hot. She didn't respond, but merely looked at him with uneasy eyes.

Ned's eyes met her own. "I mislike the situation as much as you, my lady. I know your misgivings for they are mine, also. So many hard questions yet no easy answers. The one that troubles me most is _why_. Jon Arryn was a good man and well-liked. Why would anyone, even...those your sister accuses...want him dead?"

_Dark wings, dark words_, Catelyn thought to herself. Never before had the saying rang truer. Only a few days ago, Maester Luwin received a raven marked for Catelyn's eyes only. Inside was a coded message from her sister Lysa, containing a shocking and dangerous accusation against the Queen.

"The answer I would have my lord is _why now_? Jon has been dead near on a year. Why would my sister wait so long to say something, if indeed she had such suspicions? What does she hope we can do about her claim?"

Ned hadn't released her hand, and now used both of his to clasp hers. "Your questions plague me as much as my own, my lady. What worries me is that perhaps none of the answers can be found here in Winterfell."

She and Ned had spoken on this at length already, although it was no disagreement. They were unfortunately of the same mind. The charge that Jon Arryn was murdered on Queen Cersei's orders was too serious to ignore. But neither Catelyn nor her husband knew what could be done about it, nor even if such a claim could be proven. Ned had the right of it, however...the question of motive was a grave one.

"Let us speak no more of this tonight, my love. It is Sansa's day; we should enjoy it and let another night be clouded by such dark matters. Tonight let us enjoy..."

Catelyn's words were cut off by Robb jumping to his feet to noisily toast to his sister's health. He and Theon had surely indulged too much in the mulled wine, but Catelyn was glad for the distraction. She and Ned both smiled and joined in the toast, while Sansa blushed prettily. Catelyn felt a pang of sympathy for her sister, with only her little boy for company in the high and lonely Eyrie. Catelyn knew she was truly blessed to be surrounded by family.

_Family._ Although she and Sandor wouldn't marry for years yet, Sansa talked about her wedding and future family constantly. Sansa's enthusiasm alarmed Ned, but it was to be expected of a girl of her age. Sandor did not seem to feel particularly rushed, however; he had not even asked about _when_ the marriage might occur.

Once they did marry, perhaps in a few years, Sansa would likely have no trouble giving him strong, tall sons. She was a tall girl, and unlikely to have any more trouble in childbed than Catelyn did herself. Bran's delivery took an age, and had been more painful than the rest, but in the end, all she had needed was an extra week of rest beyond what she had with Robb and the girls. Catelyn figured underneath those burn scars was no dashing prince, but probably a fairly handsome man. Yes, their sons would be tall and handsome, and look like Starks, too, with Sandor's dark hair and gray eyes.

Catelyn was secretly glad that Sandor was only a second son; she knew that eventually her children would all leave Winterfell, save Robb who would one day be Lord Stark in his father's place, but like any mother she wished it wasn't so. If Sandor's brother was lord of their family's keep then he wouldn't take Sansa away, and Catelyn allowed herself a bit of selfish joy at the fact.

After the toast, Catelyn looked over to see Arya sitting with Tommy and Jon, trying to juggle three winter peaches, and failing spectacularly. One was overripe and fell to the table in a soft splat, and another bounced to the floor and rolled away, to be sniffed at suspiciously by her direwolf. Catelyn sighed and shook her head slightly, despairing that Arya would never learn to behave as a proper lady. Poor Septa Mordane tried her best, but Arya was willful if nothing else. Catelyn couldn't help but hope that when it came time for Arya's soul bonding, Jojen Reed would name someone for her that was as equally good for her as Sandor seemed to be for Sansa. After all, winter was coming.

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A/N: Ahh, the plot thickens! I know some of you were very ready to to read about Certain Things happening between our heroine and hero, but you must be patient, my sweet summer children! First we needed to get another's perspective on this whole soul bond thing. Coming up next: Sansa and Sandor start to get to know each other, and Sandor learns what the heckola this "bond" thing is.

Thank you so much for your faves and follows and reviews! Of course I'm greedy and I'd love to hear more - what you think of each chapter, and where you think the story might be going (I'm not going to give anything away, of course!). As always, please review and let me know what you think!


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